Going Nowhere
by jewelianna
Summary: Two boys in Mexico with nothing to do but drink can only lead to trouble. Jason/Tim, slash.


In Mexico, everything was dusty

In Mexico, everything was dusty. There was dust on the wheels of his chair, sticking in between his fingers, trapped under his butt in the chair in crevices he couldn't quite sweep out.

It was Tim's bright idea to go to the beach, which meant wheeling through the streets in the middle of the afternoon with the sun blazing down like a flamethrower over their heads. The clouds didn't like Mexico any more than Jason did, but at least they had the good sense to stay away.

Tim walked beside him carrying towels and a cooler of beers. Jason had never heard of the brand of the beer before, and it tasted like piss, but he was afraid if he drank the water that he'd end up with the runs, and that would be pretty fucking embarrassing giving his inability to control that particularly bodily function. He was more buzzed than he should have been as he wheeled down the road, so hot that he pulled off his shirt, sunburn be damned.

Tim whistled lowly as Jason worked the wheels up an incline. "You sure managed to keep in shape there, Six. Never even know you're not playing ball anymore." He stepped in to help Jason up the hill without a word- if he'd offered, Jason would have refused.

Jason didn't answer him, just let Tim help him up the tiny hill to the top of the dunes. The beach was nearly empty, except for a few die-hard American surfers on southern Sabbatical and an old woman collecting empty cans in a garbage bag. Tim handed the cooler to Jason and swept him up in his arms. It was easier now than it had been the first time in the rehab center.

He sat on the sand while Tim went back for the chair, watching the grains on his toes, trying to will them to move. It was a game he played that he'd never win, though he had high hopes for the surgery. Even if he could never wiggle his toes, he'd settle for just being able to feel the itch of sand that caked between them.

Tim wasn't one for words, but he sat companionably by as Jason leaned back on his arms and watched the waves.

"You know, next year, I could be out there surfing with those guys. We could make this an annual tradition. The anniversary of the day I got my legs back."

Tim took another drink and pushed his hair behind his ears. The wind tossed it out again, slapping him in the face. "Or we can just come down here and get shitfaced for the hell of it. Don't need a reason. "

"We're not going through this again." He'd heard the lectures and the warnings plenty of times as they flipped through Mexican telenovelas and game shows over and over again. "I'm having the procedure done tomorrow."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"It's not going to go wrong. God, why do you always have to be so negative?" As happy as he'd been for the company over the past week, Jason was furious that Tim couldn't even muster up a thread of happiness for him. A few words of encouragement wouldn't hurt either.

"Maybe because everything that's supposed to work out always goes to shit. And I'm not talking about your football career, or mine, but everything. Every job, every relationship, every dream that anyone ever has. They never work out, Street."

The absolute worst thing about being paralyzed, worst than having your bodily functions discussed in daily schedules or having people look at you with that glint of pity in their eyes, was that at times like these, when he was so angry that he could barely control himself, he couldn't just walk away. He was stuck on the beach, and he couldn't even take a swing at Tim because if he lifted an arm, he'd fall over backward.

It wasn't fair.

Eventually, Tim bought a couple of beach chairs from a shack at the edge of the beach, and Jason could sit and drink another beer while his legs hung limply in the sand. He pretended that he could get up and leave any time he wanted to, but was just too lazy to move. There were plenty of other beach bums around. He could blend in as long as he didn't look back to see the wheelchair parked just behind him.

Tim went in the water, and Jason watched, tempted to join him but not willing to ask Tim to carry him into the sea. There were things that were okay in private but not in public. Tim dove into the waves, conquering them before they could crash over him, bobbing up on the other side of the crest.

As angry as he was at his friend, there was something about watching Tim that just oozed sex. The way he tossed his hair out of his eyes, or sauntered up out of the water was just hot, and Jason's mind wandered to inappropriate places watching Tim move.

It wasn't something new or something that happened often. But every once in a while when Jason watched Tim, he thought about sex.

Lyla would be scandalized if she knew.

Tim flopped into the chair next to Jason, dripping onto his arm as he reached for a towel. "Water feels great."

"I'm sure." He was hot, sweat trickling down his forehead. He pulled a beer from the cooler and passed it two-handed to Tim. He took his time getting his own, flexing his fingers, grasping the bottle with one hand. It was such a small thing but held such great hope. He tipped the bottle toward Tim, who popped the cap with his keyring

"Sure you don't want to go in?"

"I'm sure." Jason drank in silence and watched the waves. There were a couple of girls in tiny bikinis eyeing them, and Tim waved.

"Don't," Jason warned, but it was too late. They were coming over, giggling and talking behind their hands in rapid Spanish.

"Ladies," Tim nodded. Jason kept his eyes on his beer. The girls stood before them, long shadows falling across his legs.

"Do you have more beer?" the taller one asked. Her skin was dark caramel, her hair long and swinging at her back. Jason gestured to the cooler, and the girls helped themselves.

The other girl noticed the wheelchair, and gestured to her friend. Jason watched as they communicated silently for a minute and knew that Tim's hopes of getting laid had been blown.

They stayed to drink the beer with idle chat and flirtatious come-ons, then made excuses and walked away.

"Sorry." Jason tossed his empty bottle aside angrily. Tim seemed honestly confused.

"For what?"

"For ruining your chance to hook up. I guess a cripple doesn't make a very good wing-man." Jason pounded his fist on the arm of the chair in frustration.

Tim's lips curled up in a disgusted smile. "You probably saved me from a nasty case of herpes."

Jason snorted, a half laugh. It wasn't fair that Tim could do that, turn things around, not let him apologize. "You could probably catch them if you left. Just get me to the street and I can get home."

Tim seemed to consider, then shrugged and settled back into the beach chair. He tipped his face to the sun. "You got any more of that sunscreen? I think I'm burning."

Jason didn't think Tim Riggins had ever applied sunblock in his life, but he passed the tube dutifully. "Do you think you could help me? I mean, my legs. I can't tell if they're burning, and I can't exactly rub the stuff in."

Tim did his own shoulders first, then moved on to Jason's legs. Jason couldn't feel Tim's hands at all, but imagined they were warm.

"At least you can still rub other things." Tim smiled up at him, smirking, and jerked his hand back and forth before settling into his chair and wiping his hands on the towel. He reached over Jason to grab another beer and leaned back, letting the bottle dangle between his fingers.

"Don't let me sleep too long," he warned, and closed his eyes. Jason watched him drift to sleep, no longer annoyed that Tim was there with him.

They went out drinking that night, and the evening ended with Jason bailing Tim out of a Mexican prison with cash from his precious surgery fund. He was pissed beyond acknowledgement, ready to put Tim on a bus home.

The hotel door slammed against the wall as Tim stormed in. Jason wheeled behind him, pushing the door shut behind his back. They hadn't said a word since leaving the jail.

"Just take a shower and sleep it off." He wheeled to the bed and reached down to begin untying his shoes.

"Fuck that." Tim fell face-down on the bed, feet hanging off the end.

"Tim." Jason sighed, sitting back. The lump of his best friend grunted. "Tim, get up. You smell like a Mexican prison. Go shower."

The lump mumbled something incoherently, and a hand raised a one-fingered salute.

Giving up, Jason stripped off his shirt and socks, grabbed his transfer board and headed into the bathroom. Emptying his bladder took a few minutes, and getting into the shower took a few more. He could balance the board on the tub and take a shower unassisted, thank God. He hadn't thought about things like handicapped hotel rooms when he took off for Mexico on a moment's notice.

The water was warm and it sent the sand down the drain in swirls on the bottom of the tub. Jason leaned his head back and let the water pound on his chest. The water pressure was surprisingly good for a dive motel in Mexico.

The door opened and Tim stumbled into the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet to puke. Jason just sighed and shut off the water. He grabbed a towel from the back of the tub and threw it over his lap before shoving the curtain aside.

Tim's head was obscured by the toilet bowl, but the retching had stopped. Slowly, he leaned back, head banging against the front of the sink with a crack that made Jason wince. Tim didn't seem phased by it.

"You okay?" He'd seen Tim worse. His eyes were heavy-lidded but not bloodshot, his posture limp but not quiet deadweight. If he passed out, he'd be sleeping him on the floor. Jason couldn't carry him any longer.

Tim didn't say anything for a long time. Jason had dried off, dressed in loose knit shorts and was back in his chair before Tim spoke. "I'm really worried about you, man."

Jason started to protest, but Tim cut him off. "Just hear me out, okay. I don't trust this doctor. If this works so well, why did we have to come to some assbackwards town to get it done? If that Superman guy with all his millions couldn't find a cure for this, how is some guy in Mexico doing it?"

"Maybe he wasn't a good candidate. Spinal cord injuries aren't exactly one-size fits all." Jason leaned over Tim, reaching for his toothbrush. The sink was too high, so he had to spit in a cup and then dump it and refill it with water to rinse. Tim just sat there, legs tucked up so Jason could turn the chair around in the tiny bathroom. The lights flickered overhead, the hum of air conditioning constant.

He wheeled back into the room and heard tumbling around that meant Tim was up. The shower started as Jason settled into bed. He left the lights on and laid on his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

Tim was a pain in the ass, and was drinking too much again. Jason knew it, just as he knew that walking off the football field was going to be the biggest regret of Tim's life. Their foray into Mexico might be a nice distraction, but Tim wouldn't survive Dillon without football.

The water stopped and a few minutes later, Tim came out into the room wrapped in a towel. He looked, and smelled, a lot better. Rather than climbing into bed, he pulled on a pair of boxers and sat down in Jason's chair, feet on the footrests, slowly rocking back and forth.

"The thing is," he began, and Jason watched him from his horizontal position, "the worst time in my life was when you got hurt. I don't think I could go through it again."

"Tim." Jason's throat caught with emotion. They were brothers, closer than brothers. Guys didn't talk like that unless they were really scared or really drunk. Combining the two was making Tim say things he would probably regret in the morning. "I've got to try this. I've got nothing else left."

"You've got me." Tim leaned forward, grabbing onto Jason's arm. "You've got your parents, the team. You've got a whole town who adores you, practically worships the ground you—"

"Roll on? Yeah, I got that. The team mascot, right?"

"No. Not the mascot, the heart. Clear eyes, full hearts, remember? You're the heart of the team, and if something happens to you. How am I supposed to call you mother and tell her that I'm bringing your dead body home from Mexico?"

"Why can't you just have a little faith?" Jason stared at his arm, where Tim's grip hadn't diminished. He was holding on like a drowning man.

"Now you sound like Lyla," Tim snorted. He stood, stretching, then nudged at Jason's hip. "Move over."

"Tim, you have your own bed," Jason protested, but Tim was shoving him back against the wall.

"It smells like a Mexican prison. Why'd you let me lay down there?" Jason just shook his head and let Tim take up half of his bed.

Jason's alarm woke him early, too early, but he knew that he had to get up and deal with the bathroom. He'd had a lot of beer the night before too. Only problem was, Tim had him pinned against the wall, one arm thrown over Jason's waist.

Jason nudged with his elbow. "Tim. You've gotta let me up."

His only answer was a mellow grunt, so Jason nudged harder, and raised his voice. "Tim. I've got to get up."

"Fuck, Six." Rolling over, sitting up, just getting out of the way, Tim let Jason get himself into the chair before collapsing back onto the bed, this time taking the corner.

Jason finished in the bathroom as quickly as possible and hurried back to bed. Tim's arm came back around him, his head on Jason's shoulder. Jason stilled, because this was a boundary crossed and while it wasn't bad, he didn't know what to do.

"Tim," he cautioned, but Tim didn't do anything except nuzzle his nose into the hollow under Jason's ear.

"Promise me you're not gonna leave me again," he whispered, and Jason turned his head, uncomfortable, but Tim was just right there. He remembered Tim in the water earlier that day. Even when he wasn't moving, just laying there, he still made Jason think of sex.

"I promise," Jason said, and it was with all the sincerity in the world. They were connected, Riggins and Street, Street and Riggins. One would never be without the other.

"Good." Tim leaned forward and sealed the promise with a kiss, and if it had been Lyla doing that, Jason wouldn't have been surprised at all, but this was Tim. His lips were chapped and dry and Jason parted his instinctively. Tim took advantage, turning a simple peck into a real, honest-to-God kiss that couldn't be explained away by drunken or tired anything. Tim tasted like minty toothpaste and stale beer and he kissed like he did everything except football, slow and lazy and completely at his own pace.

It wasn't at all logical, but it was the first time someone had kissed him in a year. The body just does things when it's been denied for that long. Tim's hand was on his chest, and Jason could feel the tips of Tim's fingers just over his heart. They tapped out a rhythm in time with the beats, in time with the kisses. Jason tentatively raised a hand and placed it over Tim's, so that they covered his heart in a doubly-protective shield.

"I need you," Tim admitted, and his voice wavered as he pulled back a bit so Jason could see his eyes. They were dark, emotion rolling through like summer storm clouds. It broke quickly, and a smile quirked on Tim's lips. "You can't tell this right now," Tim murmured, "but my cock's really hard."

Jason smiled a little at that, and Tim kissed him again until he was gasping for breath. He couldn't feel it, but it didn't surprise him because he was sure that his dick was hard too. Too stirred up, too long since he'd done this, too much because this was Tim and it was something he'd never quite admitted that he'd wanted. He bravely reached his left hand down, looking for proof.

Tim's cock was indeed hard, and Jason gripped it awkwardly. He wanted to make it feel good for Tim, but was at a bad angle, and didn't really how to go about doing this. A part of his brain panicked that Tim was going to realize what was happening any minute and pull away. There was a degree of fear in his own head too, a quiet freak-out that didn't let him forget that this was Tim and he was naked and there was touching and kissing. He fought through the voices in his head and let his hand move, watching Tim's face, marveling that he was the one who made Tim Riggins's eyes flutter shut like that just from a squeeze of the hand.

It was awkward, neither of them really knowing what they were doing, but Tim ended up on top of Jason, which was strange. Jason knew he was there but couldn't feel the weight or the thrust of Tim's impatient hips.

He ended up with his arms up around Tim's shoulders, eyes closed as Tim's hips thrust down against his. It wasn't exactly the same as before, but his body hummed with arousal, a lightening shot of energy that only got worse when Tim ducked his head and kissed him again.

He closed his eyes, because it was less weird that way. It was good, so good, but still weird, and Jason didn't want the weird to outweigh the good. He felt the muscles in Tim's back clench and knew that he was close, so he crept his hands down lower on Tim's back to hold his hips, wanting to be right there, to find some way to feel it when Tim came. Tim's breath shuttered against his cheek and Jason knew it had happened, feeling Tim's ass clench and thrust, slowly coming, riding out the waves.

Tim didn't fall back on him, but rolled to the side, shucking the soiled sheets between them. Jason's cock stretched awkwardly in his shorts, until Tim's hands were there, pulling it out, stroking it so fast that his hand blurred. There were lights dancing at the edge of his vision, brain cells firing in all sorts of wonderful directions.

"You promised," Tim whispered again, and he kissed Jason before he could come. He couldn't feel his cock pulse and spurt, but the shock of it flew up his body, breath panting, head on overload. Tim's lips were insistent, not letting Jason breathe as the orgasm subsided.

He had to clean up, take care of things, make sure there was no chance for infection. It was so much worse than when Lyla used to make him get up and flush the condom as soon as they were done screwing around in her bedroom. Tim tried to follow him into the bathroom, but Jason shut the door in his face.

"Street," he called, almost whining, one knock of a fist landing against the door. "Don't let this be weird now."

"It's not," Jason said, and it wasn't. He wasn't afraid of facing Tim after that. It was just one more piece in their relationship. He didn't know what it meant, but it didn't freak him out the way that it probably should have.

There was one other thing though. He opened the door and Tim was there, looming over him. "This was. This was something. Important. But it didn't change my mind, Tim. I promised you I won't leave you, and I won't. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not going to die. But I'm having the surgery."

Tim looked down at him for a minute, pleading and fear nearly hidden by the anger in his eyes. He grabbed some clothes and dressed forcefully, leaving with a slam of the door. Jason watched, waiting to see if Tim would come back. When he didn't, Jason went back to bed. The sun wasn't even up yet. He couldn't process this. He needed to focus on the surgery, and getting ready to get out of the chair. Tim would be there. Jason knew that now more than ever, no matter what happened.

In the hallway, Tim took out a fistful of change and began to dial.


End file.
